PARIS, 1897-1902
PARIS, May, 1897.
Dear L.,—I can hardly believe that we have been here a month. The time has slipped by, as it has a way of doing when one is frightfully busy; in my case it was particularly exasperating.
Johan's secretary took rooms for us at the Hôtel Chatham, which was not a very good choice, as you will see.
The day for Johan to present his lettres de créance was fixed for the 20th of April. M. Crozier, the gentleman who introduces Ambassadors and Ministers to the President, appeared with two landaus, escorted by a detachment of the Garde Nationale.
The little courtyard of the hotel could not contain more than the carriages; the horsemen were obliged to stay in the very narrow rue Daunou, which they filled from one end to the other.
While the two gentlemen were exchanging their greetings I slipped out and walked down the rue de la Paix, which I found barred from the rue Daunou as far as the rue de Rivoli.
I felt very proud when I thought from whom it was barred.
I went into a shop while the brilliant cortège was passing and, feigning ignorance, asked the woman at the counter:
"What is this procession?"
"Oh! C'est un de ces diplomates" she said, shrugging her shoulders.
I left the shop without buying anything—a paltry revenge on my part; still it was a revenge.
We have found a suitable apartment in the rue Pierre Charron, and I have just now begun to look up some of my old friends. Alas! there are not many left, but those who are seem glad to see me. My first official visit was to Madame Faure. This was easily managed. I simply went on one of her reception-days. An Elysian master of ceremonies was waiting for me, and I followed him into the salon where Madame Faure sat, surrounded by numerous ladies. A servant wrestled in vain with my name, "Crone" being the only thing he seized, but the master of ceremonies announced to the President that I was the Danish Minister's wife, after which things went smoothly. To leave no doubt in the other guests' minds that I was a person of distinction and the wife of a Minister Madame Faure asked me innumerable questions about Monsieur le Ministre.
We were scarcely settled when there came the awful catastrophe of the burning of the Bazar de Charité, about which you have probably read. I had promised to go to it, and I can say that my life literally hung on a thread, for if my couturière had kept her word and sent my dress home at the time she promised I should certainly have gone and would probably have been burned up with the others. Marquise de Gallifet also owed her life to my not going. She came to make me a visit and lingered a little. This little saved her life. She entered the fated bazar just a moment before the fire broke out, and therefore managed to escape.
Frederikke and I drove to the offending dressmaker. (How I blessed her afterward!) When we passed the Cours la Reine we were very much astonished to see a man without a hat, very red in the face, waving two blackened hands in the most excited manner. He jumped into a cab and drove away as fast as the horse could gallop. Then we saw a young lady, bareheaded, in a light dress, rushing through the street, and another lady leaning up against the wall as if fainting. The air was filled with the smell of burning tar and straw, and we noticed some black smoke behind the houses. I thought it must come from a stable burning in the neighborhood. We had been so short a time in Paris that I did not realize how near we were to the street where the bazar was held.
At half past five we drove through the rue François Ier on our way home and saw a few people collected on the Place, otherwise there seemed nothing unusual. When we passed through the avenue Montaigne we met Monsieur Hanotaux (Minister of Foreign Affairs) in a cab, looking wildly excited. He stood up and screamed to me, "Vous étes sauvée." What could he mean?
I thought that he was crazy. I screamed back, "Que dites vous?" but he was already out of hearing. It was only when we reached home that we learned what had happened and understood what he had meant.
How dreadful were the details!
The bazar was in a vacant lot inclosed by the walls of surrounding houses, from which the only exit was through the room where a cinematograph had been put up. This, being worked by a careless operator, took fire.
The interior of the bazar consisted of canvas walls, of which one part represented a street called Vieux Paris.
The bazar was crowded; the stalls were presided over by the most fashionable ladies of Paris, and there were many gentlemen in the crowd of buyers.
When the fire broke out a gentleman whose wife was one of the stall-holders stood up near the door and cried out, "Mesdames, n'ayez pas peur. Il n'y a pas de danger," and quietly went out, leaving people to their fates.
Then came the panic.
Young ladies were trampled to death by their dancing-partners of the evening before. One of them was engaged to be married, and when her fiancé walked over her body, in his frenzy to escape, she cried to him, "Suivez moi, pour l'amour de Dieu!" He screamed back, "Tout le monde pour soi," and disappeared.
She was saved by a groom from the stables opposite. She was horribly burned, but probably will live, though disfigured for life. Under the wooden floor were thrown all the débris—tar, shavings, paper, etc. This burned very quickly, and the floor fell in, engulfing those who could not escape; the tarred roof and the canvas walls fell on them. What an awful death!
The kitchen of a small hotel, which formed one side of the vacant lot, had one window about four feet from the ground. This was covered with stout iron bars. The cook, when he realized the disaster, managed to break the bars and, pushing out a chair, was able to drag a great many women through the window. He and the stable-boy were the only persons who seemed to have done anything toward helping.
Of course, around the uprooted and demolished turn-stile was the greatest number of victims, but masses were found heaped together before the canvas representing the street of Vieux Paris. The poor things in their agony imagined that it really was a street. It was all over in an hour. It seems almost incredible that such a tragedy could have taken place in so short a time. And to think that the whole catastrophe could have been averted by the expenditure of a few francs! When the architect heard that there was to be a cinematograph put up he pointed out the danger and begged that some firemen should be engaged. The president of the committee asked how much this would cost and, on being told twenty francs for each fireman, replied, "I think we will do without them."
The Duchesse d'Alençon and the wife and daughters of the Danish Consul-General were among the victims. The dead were all taken to the Palais de l'Industrie and laid out in rows. Through the whole night people searched with lanterns among the dead for their loved ones. It was remarked that, though there were many men's canes and hats, there was not one man found among the burned. Not one man in all Paris acknowledged that he had been to the Bazar.
Within an incredibly short time subscriptions amounting to over a million francs were collected. From America came many messages of sympathy and a great deal of money. But no one could be found except the cook and the stable-boy who had done anything to merit a reward. After giving them large sums the rest of the money went to form a fund for the building of a chapel in commemoration of the disaster.
PARIS, 1897.
Dear L.,—Social life here is very confusing and fatiguing; physically, because distances are so immense. People live everywhere, from the Île St.-Louis to the gates of St.-Cloud. Hardly a part of Paris where some one you know does not live. The very act of leaving a few cards takes a whole afternoon.
In reality there are three societies which make life for a diplomat, whose duty it is to be well with every one, very complicated and unending. The official season for dinners, receptions, and soirées is in the winter; French society, just returned from the Riviera and Italy, has its real season in spring, when Longchamps and Auteuil have races and Puteaux has its sports. The autumn is the time when strangers flock to Paris; then commence the restaurant and theater parties. How can any lady have a reception-day where people of all countries, all politics, and all societies meet? Impossible! I have tried it, and I am sorry to say that my receptions are dead failures. Still, I persevere, as I am told it is my duty to receive.
When our first invitation to the ball of the Élysées came I was most anxious to see what it would be like. Is it not strange that the cards of invitation are the same used in the Empire. "La Présidence de la République Française" stands instead of "La Maison de l'Empereur." I have the two before me, the old and the new, and they are exactly alike, color, paper, and engraving!
The Diplomatic Corps has a separate entrance at the Élysées. We were met and conducted by a master of ceremonies to the room where the President and Madame Faure were standing. M. Faure is called un Président décoratif. He is tall, handsome, and has what you might call princely manners. The privileged ones passed before them and shook hands, quite à l'Américaine. I was named by M, Crozier and got from M. Faure an extra squeeze by way of emphasizing that I was a new-comer.
We then passed into the salon where our colleagues were assembled, and did not move from there until the presidential pair came in at eleven o'clock. At these balls there are a great many—too many—people invited. I have been told that there are six thousand invitations sent out. To one gentleman is assigned the duty to stay in the first salon and pass in review the toilets of the promiscuous guests and judge if they are suitable. When he sees a lady (?) in a high woolen dress with thick and soiled boots in which she has probably walked to the ball, he politely tells her that there must be some mistake about her invitation, and she walks meekly back to her comptoir.
When M, and Madame Faure had finished receiving, they came into the room where the diplomats were; and the President, giving his arm to the lady highest in rank (the protocole arranged the other couples) we marched through the crowd of gazers-on, through the ballroom, where some youths and maidens were whirling in the dance, through the palm-filled winter garden, where the people were crowded around a buffet, and through all the salons until we reached the last one, quite at the end of the palace, where a sumptuous buffet awaited us. At one o'clock we returned home. It amused me to see old Waldteufel still wielding his bâton and playing his waltzes as of old. I wanted to speak to him, but, being in the procession, I could not stop.
Yesterday I had a visit from Adelina Patti. I had not seen her for a long time. It seemed only the other day that I had written a letter condoling with her on the death of Nicolini, her second husband. This time she was accompanied by her third husband, Baron Cederstrom, a very fine-looking Swede whose family we knew well in Sweden. The diva looked wonderfully young, and handsomer than ever. When they came into the salon together one could not have remarked very much difference in their ages, though he is many years younger than she is.
Massenet comes often to see me. He is a great man now. He and Saint-Saëns are the most famous musicians of France at the present moment. Massenet has never forgotten old kindnesses; and, no matter where he is, whether on a platform at a concert, or in a drawing-room full of people, he always plays as a prelude or an improvization the first bars of a favorite song of his I used to sing. He sends me a copy of everything he composes, and always writes the three bars of that song on the first page.
Among others we find our friend Marquise de Podesta. She is a sort of lady in waiting to Ex-Queen Isabella of Spain. I went to see her at the Queen's beautiful palace in the avenue Kléber. I was delighted when she asked me if I would like to make the acquaintance of the Queen. I went two days later to what she called an "audience." The Queen received me in a beautiful room lined with old Gobelin tapestry and furnished with great taste. She is rather heavy and stout and wears a quantity of brown hair plastered over her temples, which does not give her the height a Queen ought to have. She was very amiable, asked many questions about places and people I knew, and before I was aware of it I found myself spinning out lengthy tales. I should have much preferred she do the talking.
JULES MASSENET AT THE HEIGHT OF HIS CAREER
From an autographed photograph taken in 1894.
The Empress Eugénie is now here. And fancy! living at the Hôtel Continental, right opposite the gardens of the Tuileries. I have not seen her for six years (since Cap-Martin). Baron Petri, who always accompanies her, answered my note asking if I might come to see her, saying that the Empress would receive me with pleasure. You may imagine my emotion at seeing her again. I found her seated at the window facing the Tuileries. How could she bear to be so near her old home? As if reading my thoughts, she said: "You wonder that I came here to this hôtel. It is very sad. There are so many memories. But it seems to bring me nearer mon fils bien aimé. I have him always before me. My poor Louis! I can see him as a little boy, when he used to drive out in his carriage, always surrounded by the cent gardes." She told me of the terrible journey she had made to South Africa. She had wished to go over the same route that the Prince had taken on his way to Zululand. How dreadful it must have been for her! Can one imagine anything more tragic? Her only child, whom she loved beyond anything in the world, whom she hoped to see on the throne! The future monarch of France! a Napoleon! to be killed by a few Zulus, in a war not in any way connected with France. The Empress appeared weighed down with grief; nevertheless, she seemed to like to talk with me. I wish I could have heard more, but the arrival of the Princess Mathilde interrupted us, and I left.
The papal nonce (Ambassador of the Pope) had his official reception last week in his hotel, rue Legendre, which is far too small to hold all the people who went there. All Paris, in fact. No one is invited to these receptions, but every one thinks it a duty and a politeness to attend; consequently, there are a great number of people who walk in, are presented, and walk out.
The nonce is a charming man, simple in his manner, kind and gentle. I felt very proud the other evening to be on his arm after the dinner at the Minister of Foreign Affair's, and walk about with him. When we passed by some of the unclothed Dianas and Venuses the dear old man held up his hand to cover his eyes: "Non devo guardare!" Nevertheless I caught him peeping under his eyelids. He came on my Thursday to see me, accompanied by Monsignore Montagnini, his secretary, and sat a long time lingering over his teacup, and made himself very agreeable to the many ladies present.
The nonce accepted our invitation to dine on the 26th (he fixed the day himself). That evening I received a note from the secretary to say that the nonce had forgotten that the 26th was Ash Wednesday, and, naturally, could not have the pleasure, etc.
Prince Valdemar, the youngest son of the King of Denmark, and Princess Marie, his wife, were dining yesterday with us, with Prince George of Greece, who is extremely agreeable and handsome. She (the Princess Marie) when in Paris stays with her parents, the Due and Duchesse de Chartres, in their beautiful palace, known In Paris for its artistic architecture and its onyx staircase.
A NOTE FROM MASSENET
This was a reply to a letter of introduction which Madame de Hegermann-Lindencrone had written Miss Geraldine Farrar to Massenet. He taught her subsequently Manon.
The Princess desired to meet President Faure for some reason, and, as she could not do that In her father's house, she desired us to arrange a meeting on the neutral ground of the Legation. On the day fixed they met here In the afternoon. I remained out of the salon, and only returned when the tea-table was brought in. The President partook of his tea with graceful nonchalance.
PARIS, 1897.
Dear L.,—You ask, "What are you doing?" If you had asked what are we not doing I would have told you, but what we are doing covers acres of ground. We are in a whirlwind of duties and pleasures, dinners, soirées, and balls. It would bore you to death to hear about them. Many of my old friends are still in Paris; those you knew are Countess Pourtales (just become a widow); Marquise Gallifet, who is more separated from her husband than ever. She remains Faubourgeoise St.-Germain, and he favors the Republic.
I find Christine Nillson here. From Madame Rivière she has become Countess Casa-Miranda. She has a pretty little hôtel near us, where she sings not, "neither does she spin." I meet her at dear old Mrs. Pell's Sunday-afternoon ladies' teas. Nillson and I are the youngest members of the club. You may imagine what the others must be in the way of years. Mrs. Pell gives us each (we are twelve) a gold locket with a teacup engraved on its back, and a lock of her once brown hair inside, and we assemble and eat American goodies made in an ultra-superior manner by her chef.
Our occupations or amusements depend very much upon whom we are with. A whole army of doctors has just descended on us, and we are doing the medical side of Paris. One day we went to see Dr. Doyen, the celebrated cutter-up of men. He said that operations other doctors spent an hour over he did in ten minutes. It sounds a little boastful, but after what I saw I am sure that it is true. He has a very large hospital where he preaches and practises and gives cinematographic representations of his most famous operations. It was very interesting, because at the same time that we were looking at him in the pictures he was sitting behind us explaining things. Strange to say that one or two of the doctors with us fainted away. The ladies did not faint, neither did they look on. The operation which took the most time was the cutting apart of the little Indian twins, Radica and Dodica. This last one (poor little sickly thing) was dying of tuberculosis, and the question was whether the well one should be separated or die with her sister. While this was going on the little survivor came to the door and begged to be let in (she was tired of running up and down the corridor); therefore we knew that the operation had succeeded, which helped to make it less painful to witness.
We visited, in company with these same doctors, the Pasteur Institute, young M. Pasteur accompanying us. We began at the rooms where they examined hydrophobia in all its developments. Persons who have been bitten by any animal are kept under observation, and they have to go to the Institute forty times before they are either cured or beyond suspicion. There are two large rooms adjoining each other, one for the patients and the other for the doctors. Every morning the unhappy men and women are received and cared for.
May 15, 1898.
My dear L.,—We have just come home from bidding our Crown Prince and Princess good-by at the station.
On Thursday Madame Faure and her daughter came to see me. On bidding them adieu I said I hoped the President had not forgotten the photograph of himself which he had promised me. Madame Faure answered, "Vous l'aurez ce soir méme, chère Madame." That very evening while we were dining with Count and Countess Cornet we heard that Félix Faure had suddenly died. To-day we learned how he had died. Not through the papers, but secretly, in an undertone and with a hushed voice.
I think that the French papers ought to take the prize in the art of keeping a secret. One could never imagine that a whole nation could hold its tongue so completely! There appeared no sensational articles, no details, and no comments on the President of the French Republic's departure from this world. Everything in the way of details was kept secret by the officials. In our country, and, in fact, in every other country, such discretion would have been impossible; the news in all its details would have been hawked about the streets in half an hour. Here was simply the news that Félix Faure had died.
A week later the President's funeral took place at Nôtre Dame. Seats were reserved for the Corps Diplomatique by the side of the immense catafalque which stood in the center of the cathedral. Huge torches were burning around it. After every one was seated, in came the four officers sent by the German Emperor. Four giants! The observed of all observers! Their presence did not pass unnoticed, as you may imagine. They seemed more as if they were at a parade than at a funeral. The music was splendid; The famous organist Guilmant was at the organ, and did "his best." I believe Notre Dame never heard finer organ-playing. I never did.
The streets were full of troops; the large open square in front of the cathedral was lined with a double row of soldiers. The diplomats followed on foot in the procession from Notre Dame to Père la Chaise, traversing the whole of Paris.
PARIS, 1899.
My dear Sister,—You may think what a joy it is to me to have my dear friend Mrs. Bigelow Lawrence staying with me here. Every day we go to some museums and do a little sight-seeing. She is interested in everything.
The new President (Loubet) gave us for one night the Presidential loge at the Grand Opéra, and I cannot tell you how delighted we were to hear Wagner's "Meistersinger" given in French, and marvelously executed. All the best singers took part. The orchestra was magnificent beyond words. The artists played with a delicacy and a culte not even surpassed at Bayreuth. In the entr'actes we reviewed—seated in the luxurious, spacious loge where the huge sofas and the fauteuils offered their hospitable arms—our impressions, which were ultra-enthusiastic. Near us was Madame Cosima Wagner, whom one of our party went to see. She expressed the greatest pleasure at the performance, not concealing her surprise that a representation in French and in France could be so perfect. If that most difficult of ladies was satisfied, imagine how satisfied we must have been!
FÉLIX FAURE WHEN PRESIDENT OF FRANCE
From a photograph taken shortly before his sudden death and sent by his widow to Madame de Hegermann-Lindencrone.
As a bonne bouche we took Mrs. Lawrence to Madame Carnot's evening reception. These receptions are not gay. They might be called standing-soirées, as no one ever sits down. The guests move in a procession through the salons, the last one of which is rather a melancholy one. In the middle of it is a square piece of marble lying flat on the floor, and a quantity of withered wreaths and faded ribbons piled up on it. They are the souvenirs of the late President's funeral. Madame Carnot, a most charming lady, wears a long black veil as in the first days of her widowhood, and receives in a widowed-Empress manner.
Mrs. Lawrence's visit is the incentive for active service in the army of musicians. The President often sends me the ci-devant Imperial loge at the Conservatoire. In old times I used to think how splendid it would be to sit here! Now I have the twelve seats to dispose of—six large gilded Empire fauteuils in front, and six small ones behind. There is always a bright coal-fire in the salon adjoining, but it does not take away the damp coldness from a room where a ray of light or a breath of fresh air never can penetrate. The concerts seem exactly the same as they used to be; they do not appear to have changed either in their repertoires or in their audiences. Beethoven, Haydn, and Bach are still the fashion, and the old habitués still bob their heads in rhythmical measure.
The chorus of men and women look precisely as they did when dear old Auber was directeur (twenty-five years ago). I think that they must be the same. The sopranos are still dressed in white, and the contraltos in black, indicative of their voices' color.
Pugno with his pudgy hands played the Concerto of Mozart in his masterful manner. One wonders how he can have any command over the keyboard, he has such short arms and such a protruding stomach.
As a modern innovation Pierno's "Création" was given, beautifully executed, but received only with toleration.
Just to go up the familiar worn staircase brought the old scenes vividly before me. Then it was a great piece of luck to obtain a seat within its sacred walls, and such an event to go to a concert that I can still remember my sensations.
PARIS, 1899.
My dear Sister,—You ask me to tell you about the "Dreyfus affair."
It is a lengthy tale, and such a tissue of lies and intrigue that common sense wonders if the impossible cannot be possible, if wrong cannot be right. You probably know more of the details of the case than I do, if you have followed it from the beginning, as I am just beginning to follow.
I assure you it is as much as your life is worth to speak about it; and, as for bringing people together or inviting them to dinner, you must first find out if they are Dreyfusards or anti-Dreyfusards, otherwise you risk your crockery. The other day I was talking to an old gentleman who seemed very level-headed on the start. Perhaps I might learn something! I ventured to say, "Do tell me the real facts about the Dreyfus affair." Had I told him that he was sitting on a lighted bomb the effect on him could not have been more startling.
"Do you know that he is the greatest traitor that has ever lived? He gave the bordereau to the German government."
"What is a bordereau?" I asked.
He seemed astonished that I did not know what a bordereau was. "It is a list of secret documents. He gave this three years ago."
"Who discovered it?" I inquired.
"It was found in the paper-basket of the German Embassy, and Monsieur Paty du Clam knew about it."
"And then?"
"Well, then he was arrested and brought before the conseil de guerre, found guilty, and degraded before the army."
"Did he confess that he wrote the bordereau?"
"No! On the contrary, he swore he had not, but the generals decided that he had. So he must have!"
"The generals may have been mistaken," I said. "Such things have happened."
"Oh no. It is impossible that these officers could have been mistaken."
"What did he say when he was accused?" I continued.
"I hardly think that he was told of what he was accused."
"Do you mean to say," I cried, "that he did not know that he was suspected of high treason?"
"He must have known that he wrote the bordereau," he replied.
"If he wrote it," I interrupted. "Was he not condemned only on his handwriting?"
"Yes," replied my elderly friend, whose head I had thought level. "But to discover the truth one had to resort to all sort of ruses in order to convict him and convince the public."
"Why did the generals want to condemn him, if he was not guilty?" I asked.
"They had to condemn some one," said my friend, who was beginning to be dreadfully bored. "The generals found Dreyfus guilty, therefore Dreyfus was guilty without doubt."
"Do you think that if an injustice has been done it will create a great indignation in other countries and will affect the coming Exposition?" I inquired.
"Ah," said my wise friend, "that is another thing. I think myself that it would be prudent to do something toward revising the judgment; everything ought to be done to make the Exposition a success."
And there the matter rested.
I doubt if his friendship stood this test. Any one who takes Dreyfus's defense is looked upon as an enemy in the camp. I devour the papers. Le Matin seems to be the only unprejudiced one. J. reads the others, but I have no patience with all their cooked-up and melodramatic stories.
On the 11th of September the King of Siam gave the diplomats an opportunity to meet him at a reception in the new and beautiful Siamese Legation.
The King is good-looking, and tall for a Siamese. He talked English perfectly and showed the greatest interest in everything he had seen. When he left Paris a few days later he bought three hundred dozen pairs of silk stockings for his three hundred wives. Quite a sum for the royal budget! One can't imagine bigamy going much further than that, can one? And he is only forty-two years old!
I was very glad to meet Colonel Picquard at a dinner in a Dreyfusard house. All that I had heard of him made me feel a great admiration for him. I was not disappointed. He is a most charming man, handsome, with such an honest and kind face. I hoped he would talk with me about Dreyfus, and said as much to my hostess, who in her turn must have said "as much" to him, for he came and sat by me. I did not hesitate to broach the tabooed subject. He said: "I do not and have never thought that Dreyfus was guilty. He may have done something else, but he never, in my belief, wrote the bordereau. I had not known him before. I was the officer who was sent to his cell to make him write his name; they forced him to write it a hundred times. He was perfectly calm, but it was so cold in his room that his fingers were stiff and his hands trembled. He kept saying, 'Why am I to do this?' I was convinced then and there of his innocence. I could have wept with compassion when I saw how unconscious the poor fellow was. I was also on duty," he added, "when Dreyfus was conducted to the Ecole Militaire the day he was degraded before the troops: his epaulettes were torn from his shoulders and his sword was broken in two. I never could have imagined that any one could endure so much. My heart bled for him."
Dreyfus was imprisoned two weeks and subjected every day to mysterious questionings, of which he could not divine the purpose. Neither he nor his counsel knew on what grounds he was arrested.
Forzinetti, who was in charge of Dreyfus's prison, also believed him innocent, and said he had never seen a man suffer as he did. He kept repeating, "My only crime is having been born a Jew." He has been confined ever since on the Ile du Diable under the strictest surveillance. His jailer was not allowed to speak to him. When airing himself in the little inclosure, exposed to the awful heat, there was always a gun pointed at him. Sometimes he was chained to his bed with irons, and a loaded pistol was always placed by his side in case he became weary of life. Colonel Picquard said:
"It can only be the strong desire to prove his innocence that keeps his courage up." Colonel Schwartkopfen (the German military attaché in Paris) declares solemnly to any one who will listen that the German Embassy has never had anything to do with Dreyfus, and the bordereau is unknown there.
We are very anxious about the news we get from Denmark. The dear Queen is very ill, and there is little hope of her recovery.
PARIS, 29th September.
Dear ____,—The Queen died last night.
Every one in Paris has come to us to express his sympathy. As is the custom in Europe, people write their names in a book placed in the antechamber. There are several hundred signatures. In Denmark there is mourning ordered for six months. As there is no Danish church in Paris, a memorial service for the Queen was celebrated in the Greek chapel. It was most solemn and beautiful. I love to hear the mournful chants of the white-robed, solemn priests.
It was very sad to hear of the assassination of the beautiful Empress of Austria. She was in Geneva and about to take the little boat to go up the lake. The assassin met her and, apparently running against her accidentally, stabbed her. She did not feel the thrust and continued to walk on. When she stepped on the boat they noticed the blood on her dress, and soon after, on being taken to the hotel, she died.
The French military attaché in Copenhagen was in Paris some days and invited us to dinner at his mother's, who has a charming home. We met a great many agreeable people, among whom was the poet Rostand (he is the brother-in-law of the attaché). Rostand was very talkative, and I enjoyed, more than words can tell, my conversation with him. He was most amusing when he told of his efforts "to be alone with his thoughts." He said that when he was writing L'Aiglon he was almost crazy.
"My head seemed bursting with ideas. I could not sleep, and my days were one prolonged irritation, and I became so nervous que j'etais devenu impossible. The slightest interruption sent me into spasms of delire. Do you know what I did?" he asked me.
"I suppose," I answered, "you went on writing, all the same."
"No. You could never guess," he laughed. "I sat in a bath-tub all day. In this way no one could come and disturb me, and I was left alone."
"Tubs," I remarked, "seem to belong to celebrities. Diogenes had one, I remember, where he sat and pondered."
"But it was not a bath-tub. I consider my idea rather original! Do you not think that the Great Sarah is magnificent in 'L'Aiglon'?"
"Magnificent," I said. "You are fortunate to have such an interpreter."
"Am I not?" He was a delightful man.
He sent me a few lines of the Princess Lointaine, with his autograph.
At Mr. Dannat's, the well-known American portrait-painter, I met the celebrated composer Moskowski. One does not expect to find good looks and a pleasing talker and a charmeur in a modern artist. But he combines all of these. He said:
"I shall die a most miserable and unhappy man."
"Why?" I inquired. I feared he would confide in me the secrets of his heart, which is at present mostly occupied with his handsome and giddy wife. These, however, he kept wisely to himself.
"I am like Rubinstein," he said. "He was wretched because he could not write an opera. I also wish to write an opera, but I cannot."
"Who could, if not you?" I said. "I think your Concerto one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard."
"You flatter me," he said, modestly, "but, alas! you cannot make me a writer of operas. To-morrow afternoon is the répétition générale at the Cologne Concert of my Concerto. Teresa Careno plays the piano part. Would you allow me to accompany you, if you would like to go?"
Did I accept? Yes!
Teresa Careno surpassed herself, and the Concerto was enthusiastically received. Siegfried Wagner led the orchestra in a composition of his own. He was very arbitrary and made the artists go over and over again the same phrase without any seeming reason. One poor flutist almost tore his hair out by the roots. Wagner was so dissatisfied with his playing that he stopped him twenty times. At last, as if it were a hopeless task, he shrugged his shoulders and went on.
LINES FROM "LA PRINCESSE LOINTAINE" WITH ROSTAND'S AUTOGRAPH
Count and Countess Castellane (Miss Gould) gave a great entertainment to inaugurate their hotel-palace in the Bois. The young King of Spain was their guest of honor, and the smiling hostess clung to his arm throughout the entire evening, introducing people as they passed. She did not know every one's name nor half of their titles.
The cotillion was short and the supper long, and both were costly. The King of Spain is not handsome, but he has charming manners and a determined jaw and a very sympathetic smile. We met him again at the Grand Prix in the President's pavilion. It was a most brilliant sight. Every one in Paris was there, and the toilets of the ladies were of the dernier cri.
The King of Sweden kept his word and really did come to Paris. A dinner for him at the Elysées included us (the only persons who were not French except the Swedish Legation). We are, as you know, what they call "une legation de famille." I was more than enchanted to see the King again. He promised to come and take tea with me the next day.
"Who would your Majesty care to meet?" I asked him.
"My old lady friends whom I used to know here before," the King answered.
"Your Majesty does not mean all of them—that would be a legion."
"No, no," he laughed. "Not all, only ..." and named several.
Every one came, although invited at the eleventh hour. It was a merry meeting, and such souveniring!
The King walked to my house accompanied by Herr Ancacronra, and the gentlemen whom the French government attached to his Majesty during his visit. They were surprised that a King should prefer walking through the streets to being driven in a landau from the Elysées.
The King brought several photographs, which he distributed to his friends, and, wishing to write his name on them, desired me to give him "a nice pen with a broad point." Oh dear! Not a "nice" pen could be found in the house! And one with a broad point did not exist. As for the ink, it was thick at the bottom and thin on the top. He had to stir it about each time he put the pen in.
I was more than mortified.
PARIS, 1899.
Dear L.,—Ambassador Eustis has been replaced by General Porter. It is fortunate for America that we have so clever and tactful a gentleman for our representative, especially in this moment of the Spanish-American War. The French sympathies are (or were) with the Spaniards, and the articles in the newspapers are, to say the least, satirical of the "Yankees."
When the reporters interviewed the Ambassador they got such a clear, straight, and concise view of the situation that they changed entirely their attitude, and now at last the papers tell the truth.
General Porter and his wife have taken the beautiful Spitzer Hôtel and are the personifications of hospitality. The marble staircase is draped with the American flag. They receive in the ancestral hall filled with knights in armor, and the guests sit in medieval chairs. The picture-gallery, which is famous, is lighted at al giorno. I fancy that most of the pictures have been taken away; however, there are a few in each of the small rooms, through which the guests wander with their heads at an angle giving an impression of subtle criticism.
General Porter always has a story à propos, no matter what you are talking about. I wish I could remember some of the best. This one I do remember. He said: "I never believe but half of what is told me, but," he added, laughing and pointing to a lady, who recently had twins, "this does not apply to her." He borrowed from Coquelin the following, "All American women are like pins—they go just as far as their heads allow them." Is this original? I think it good if it is.
Do you remember Countess de Trobriand?
Well, she is still flourishing at the ripe age of eighty, and gives soirées in her apartments in the Champs Elysées. Some one said of these entertainments that they were not assez brilliant to be called trop brilliant, but might be called de trop....
Zola is mixing himself up with l'affaire (that is what one calls the Dreyfus tragedy; there is no other "affair" that counts), and is making himself very unpopular. He does not mind what he writes, and his attacks reach far and wide and spare no one. If he stirs up mud at the bottom of the well he does it in order to find the truth. At any rate, he is honest, though he has had to pay dear for the best policy. I do not read his books, but I have a great admiration for him. The public feeling is so strong against him that crowds of the populace rush about the streets pushing, howling, and screaming at the top of their lungs, "Conspuez Zola!" which I cannot translate in other words than, "Spit on Zola!" Mrs. Lawrence and I met a mob while driving through the Place de la Concorde, and a more absurd exhibition of vindictiveness cannot be imagined.
Poor Zola has been condemned to pay a fine of—how much do you think? Twenty-five thousand francs! He would not or could not pay. The authorities put all his worldly goods, which they valued at twenty thousand francs, up at auction, and went, on the day of the sale, belted with their official scarfes and armed with pretentions, and commenced the farce of the auction. An old kitchen table was the first thing to be sold. Two francs were offered. "Going, going, go—!" when a voice struck in, "Twenty-five thousand francs." This sudden turn nonplussed the authorities. The auction was called off and came to an untimely end because no one knew exactly what to do.
May, 1900.
Dear ____,—The opening of the Exposition was a grand affair. I never saw so many people under one roof as there were yesterday at the Salle des Fêtes. The order in the streets was something wonderful. The police managed the enormous crowd as if it had been composed of so many tin soldiers.
The ladies of the Diplomatic Corps and the wives of the foreign commissioners sat with Madame Loubet in a tribune, on very hard benches. The President stood on a raised platform overlooking the multitude, surrounded by his Ministers, his official suite, and the Ambassadors and Foreign Ministers in full uniform. It was a most brilliant sight.
M. Loubet made his speech in as loud a voice as he could command, but I doubt if it was very audible. Several orchestras played before and after the speeches.
Since then I have been many times to the Exposition, and the only fault I can find with it so far is that it is too enormous; but I admire the cleverness of the architects, who have brought Paris into the middle of it and made it a part of it. Both sides of the Seine are utilized in the most practical manner.
Every country has its own superb building in the rue des Nations. Frederick is the commisaire from Denmark. The Danish Pavilion is the first to be finished and is called a success. We baptized it with great éclat. There were speeches and champagne, and the Dane-brog was hoisted amid hurrahs of our compatriots.
The tapis roulant (moving sidewalk) is a very good scheme, as it takes you to every point. As yet people are a little shy about it and will stand and stare a long time before venturing to put their feet on it.
The fêtes at this time of the Exposition are overpowering. All the Ministers are outdoing themselves. They think nothing of inviting five hundred people to dinner and serving twenty courses. I sat next to M. L'Epine, prefet de police, and a more restless companion I never had, although when quietly seated in his place he is a most charming one. We had not been five minutes at the table before several telegrams were brought to him. A riot in Montmartre, a fire in the rue St. Honoré, or a duel at the Île de Puteaux, and he was up and down, telephoning and telegraphing, until finally before the end of the dinner he disappeared entirely. There were two concerts in different salons during the evening, one vocal and the other orchestral, each guest choosing that which he liked best.
I go every day to the Exposition. There is always something new and interesting. Yesterday it was a lunch with Prince Carl and Princess Ingeborg (our Crown Prince's daughter, who married her handsome cousin of Sweden) at a restaurant called Restaurant bleu, under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. The Prince wished to make the acquaintance of Mr. Eiffel, and the Swedish Minister, who was present, secured the distinguished architect's company.
He went with us to the very top of his modern tower of Babel, even to his own particular den, which is the highest point, where he alone has the right to go. The sensation of being up in the clouds is not pleasant, and as you change from one elevator to the other and cast your eyes down the giddy space you tremble. The view of Paris spread out under you is stupendous, but I would not go up there again for worlds.
The princely pair dined with us the same evening en toilette de ville, and we went to the rue de Paris to see Sadi-Jako. The Japanese Minister, who sat in the box next to us, introduced her when she came in during the entr'actes to pay her respects to him. She is very small, and has the high, shrill voice which the Japanese women cultivate. She is the first woman who has ever acted in a Japanese theater. Otherwise the acting has always been done by men. Sadi's husband performs also, and in a dreadfully realistic manner. He stabbed himself with a sword, and with such vigor that real blood, so It looked, ran down in bucketfuls over the stage, and he groaned and writhed in his death-throes.
Paris would not be Paris if it did not keep us on the qui-vive. Every kind of celebrity from everywhere is duly lionized. Paris, never Republican at heart, still loves royalty in any shape, and at the merest specimen of it the Parisians are down on their knees.
We have had the heavy-eyed Krueger straight from the Transvaal. Paris made a great fuss over him, but he took his lionization very calmly. At the Opéra people cheered and waved their handkerchiefs. He came forward to the edge of the ioge, bowed stiffly, and looked intensely bored. The protocole furnishes the same program for each lion. A dinner at the Elysées, a promenade, a gala opera, et voilà.
Fritjof Nansen, the blond and gentle Norwegian explorer, has just finished his visit here. As a Scandinavian friend he came for a cup of tea and made himself most agreeable, and was, unlike other celebrities, willing to be drawn out. He told us of some of his most exciting adventures. Starvation and exposure of all sorts belong to explorers.
No one would think, to look at the mild and blue-eyed Nansen, that he had gone through so many harrowing experiences.
"The worst were," he said, "losing my dogs. I loved them all. To see them die from want of food and other sufferings broke my heart."
I am sure that what he said was true, he looked so kind and good.
Among other personages of distinction Paris greets is the Shah of Persia. The Elysées gave him the traditional gala dinner, to which the diplomats were invited. The ballroom was arranged as a winter-garden, with a stage put at the end of it. The ballet from the Opera danced and played an exquisite pantomime, but the august guest sat sullen and morose, hardly lifting his Oriental eyes. People were brought up to him to be introduced, but he did not condescend to favor them with more than a guttural muttering—probably his private opinion, meant only for his suite. He merely glanced at us and looked away, as if too much bored for words. M. Loubet stood on one side, and Madame Loubet sat in a fauteuil next to him, but he had nothing to say to either of them. The government had put Dr. Evans's beautiful and perfect villa in the Bois at his disposition. The persons belonging to the house say that it is swimming in dirt, and they never expect to get it clean again. The suite appear to have no other amusements than driving about the streets from morning to night. The Elysées must have a hundred carriages in use for them. Last evening there was a gala performance at the Grand Opéra for the blasé Shah. They gave "Copelia," with the lovely Mauri as prima ballerina. The audience made no demonstration, although it ought to have shown a certain amount of Te Deumness, on account of the Shah's escape from an attempt on his life. He was miraculously saved, and will go on living his emotionless life for ever and ever. May Allah protect him … from us!
Speaking of Orientals, the Chinese Minister has taken a very large apartment in the Avenue Hoche. Evidently they expect to entertain on a large scale. The wife is called lady, but he is not called lord; the two pretty daughters look more European than Chinese, having pink-and-white complexions.
His Excellency was frightened out of his wits when M. Loubet, desiring a private interview, sent for him. He, not knowing European ways, thought his last hours had come, and, expecting speedy extermination, hid himself.
Milady, though half American, did not know exactly what Ascension day meant and asked her Chinese servant. He replied, "Great Churchman gone topside to-day."
Mr. Peck is the American commissioner to the Exposition, and Mr. Thomas Walsh is one of the members of the commission. He gave a colossal dinner at the restaurant at d'Armenonville, and begged Mr. Martin, who knows every one in Paris, to select the guests. It was only on the evening of the dinner he made the acquaintance of the one hundred people to whom he was host.
Nordica sang after dinner, and sang charmingly, as is her wont.
Mr. Walsh invited us to the American section. We sat on the tarred roof of a restaurant, where lunch was served a l'Américaine. My heart gladdened at the thought of hot griddle-cakes and corn fritters; but although everything was delicious, sitting on a tarred roof and being served by a loquacious black tyro was not appreciated by the foreign element.
A lady—I won't tell you her name, though you know it—showed the greatest interest in the house Mr. Walsh is building in Washington, and desired greatly to advise him and help him choose furniture for it. She thought Louis XVI. style very suitable for one salon, and proposed Renaissance style for the library, and Empire for the gallery, and so forth. Mr. Walsh said, in his dry way, "You must really not bother so much, madame; plain Tommy Walsh is good enough for me." After which she lost interest in him and gave him up.
We were horrified to hear of King Humbert's assassination at Monza. He was such a good man and loved his country so devotedly. To be struck down by one of his own people seems too cruel. How dreadful for Queen Margherita!
Court mourning is ordered for three weeks.
PARIS, 1900.
Dear L.,—Just a few lines from me to-day to answer your question, O merciless and adorable friend! Dreyfus has been brought back from the dreadful island where he has been confined these last five years. Five years of torture! He was taken to Rennes to be tried. His lawyer, Labori, has driven the judges almost out of their senses.
The sensational attacks of Zola and his sudden "J'accuse," the suicide of Henry, the repeated demissions of the Ministers and Générals, la femme Voilée, the disappearance of Esterhazy (stamped as a first-class scamp), the attempt to get Labori's papers by shooting him—the ludicrous and tragic episodes have at last come to an end. Dreyfus is declared innocent, and people are beginning to realize what has happened.
Björnstjerne Björnson, the famous Norwegian poet, has, from the beginning, taken Dreyfus's defense and written article after article in the papers and proclaimed in every manner his belief in his innocence. He hurried to Paris when he heard that Dreyfus had returned. We were very glad when an invitation came from the Swedish Minister (Mr. Ackermann) to lunch with the great author. I wish that you could see him, for to see him is to know him. He has the kindest and noblest face in the world. I wept over his account of the interview between him and Dreyfus. The day and hour were fixed for his visit. He found Madame Dreyfus alone. She begged him to wait a moment, because her husband was so agitated at the thought of seeing him that he could not trust himself to appear. When at last Dreyfus came into the room Björnson opened his arms. Dreyfus fell weeping into them and sobbed, "Merci! Merci! Vous avez crû en moi"—Björnson replied: "Mon ami, j'ai souffert pour vous, mon pauvre ami." Of course, this is only a very little part of what he told me, but it was all in this strain. He said that during the interview, which lasted an hour, Dreyfus did not utter a word of reproach against his tormentors.
BJÖRNSON
From a photograph taken in 1901.
Björnson gave a tea-party at his daughter's house in Passy, and invited us. I hoped that possibly Dreyfus might be there, but he was not. However, I had the pleasure of seeing Colonel Picquard again, and we had a long talk together. Afterward, when I bade Björnson good-by, he stooped down and kissed me on my forehead before the roomful of people. Imagine my embarrassment at this unexpected and gratuitous token of friendship, but, the kisser being Björnson, every one knew that the accolade was merely the outpouring of a kind and good heart.
PARIS, August 15, 1900.
The hottest day we have had! The thermometer was way up in the clouds. My maid, in doing my hair this morning, informed me of this fact. We conferred about my toilet for the afternoon fête in the Elysées Gardens. We heard that twelve thousand people were invited. Certainly I should be lost in a crowd like that and need not be dressed in my best. My maid thought a rather flimsy gown of about year before last would be good enough. Johan thought that he would be so entirely out of sight that he was on the point of not going at all. Well, we had a queer awakening. I was very much astonished when the master of ceremonies met me at the entrance and led me into the garden, where the vast lawn was one mass of humanity. He bade me take the first seat. I said to myself, "It is only for the moment; I shall have to move farther on later, when a higher-ranked lady arrives." Not at all! I remained in the place of honor, to the right of Madame Loubet, to the very end.
In the middle of the lawn were placed a dozen large red arm-chairs before which a strip of carpet was stretched, where we sat.
Three performances were arranged for the afternoon. To the right was a Japanese theater where Sadi-Jako and her troupe played their répertoire. In the center was a Grecian temple, before which a ballet of pretty girls danced on the grass in Grecian dresses. The effect was charming. To the left was a little Renaissance theater where people of different nationalities danced and sang in their national costumes. I never saw anything so wonderfully complete. Only the French can do things like that. When the moment arrived for the official promenade, you may imagine how I felt when I saw Monsieur Loubet approach me and offer me his arm. After all, I was the first lady! Why was I not dressed in my best?
Monsieur and I walked at the head of the procession. We made the tour of the gardens and through the whole palace, gazed on and stared at by the entire crowd of the twelve thousand spectators, until at last we reached the salon where the buffet was established.
PARIS, 1902.
Dear L.,—You might think that we are nearly exhausted, but health and energy seem to assert themselves, and we bob up like those weighted playthings children have. We have turned heads-up from our journey to Denmark. We celebrated our silver wedding at Aalholm. I won't bother you with the usual phrase, "How the time has flown!" Twenty-five years! You have seen what an ordinary wedding in Denmark is like. You can coat this one with silver, and then you will but know half the excitement. The setting being Aalholm, the chief actors J. and I, the chorus being family and friends, you may imagine that this fête left nothing to be desired. Guests came from everywhere to the number of forty. Even our best man came from Norway. Deputations and telegrams dropped on us by the hundreds; presents of silver in every form and shape. My dress was silver, and silver sprays in my hair, and J. wore them in his buttonhole. The dinner arranged by Frederick on viking lines was splendid. Speeches at every change of plates. I wept tears of pathos. An address of five hundred names, adorned with water-color sketches of our different Legations, bearing a silver cover and a coat of arms, was presented by the Danish colony in Paris. It was all very touching and gratifying.
The famous beauty, Countess Castiglione, departed this world a few days ago. She was the woman most talked of in the sixties.
When I first saw her she was already passée. There is nothing that has not been said about her, but of this I know absolutely very little. She used to live in Passy, and was called "La recluse du passé." She was so extraordinarily dressed and always created a sensation.
For the last thirty years no notice had been taken of her. I quote the Figaro:
"Countess Castiglione in her day was considered the most beautiful woman living. A classical beauty, but entirely without charm. For the last years she has lived, after having arrived at the age of eighty, in a dismal apartment in the Place Vendôme, friendless, forgotten, and neglected."
All her mirrors were covered with black stuff of some kind; she did not wish to see the sad relics of her beauty.
At eleven o'clock every evening she took a walk with her maid around the Place Vendôme. She stayed in bed all day, never rising till twilight, and receiving no one but one or two old admirers who were faithful to the end.
Her things (haillons they were called in official language) were sold at auction—piles of old ball-shoes, head-gear, gloves stiffened with moisture and age. Apparently, she never gave anything away, but hoarded her treasures, which after her death were swept in corners and smelled of mold and damp.
We are named to Berlin. I am very sorry to leave Paris; I was getting quite accustomed to its little ways. Johan went to the Elysées to present his lettres de rappel. It seems only yesterday he went to present his lettres de créance. The President gave him the Grand Cordon of the Légion d'honneur, and to me the beautiful service de Sevres called "La Chasse," a surtout de table of five pieces. This is only given to royalty or Ambassadors. One cannot buy it, as it belongs to the French government. I heard that they hesitated between giving me that or a piece of Gobelin tapestry. I was glad they chose the surtout de table. It will be useful in two ways—as a subject of conversation and as a beautiful souvenir of our stay in Paris.